340 341
terly groundless. So terrible to him was that he knew that now he was
ready to believe anything. But the expression of her face, scared and
gloomy, did not now promise even deception.
“Possibly I was mistaken,” said he. “If so, I beg your pardon.”
“No, you were not mistaken,” she said deliberately, looking desper-
ately into his cold face. “You were not mistaken. I was, and I could not
help being in despair. I hear you, but I am thinking of him. I love him,
I am his mistress; I can’t bear you; I’m afraid of you, and I hate you....
You can do what you like to me.”
And dropping back into the corner of the carriage, she broke into
sobs, hiding her face in her hands. Alexey Alexandrovitch did not stir,
and kept looking straight before him. But his whole face suddenly
bore the solemn rigidity of the dead, and his expression did not change
during the whole time of the drive home. On reaching the house he
turned his head to her, still with the same expression.
“Very well! But I expect a strict observance of the external forms of
propriety till such time”—his voice shook—”as I may take measures to
secure my honor and communicate them to you.”
He got out first and helped her to get out. Before the servants he
pressed her hand, took his seat in the carriage, and drove back to
Petersburg. Immediately afterwards a footman came from Princess
Betsy and brought Anna a note.
“I sent to Alexey to find out how he is, and he writes me he is quite
well and unhurt, but in despair.”
“So he will be here,” she thought. “What a good thing I told him
all!”
She glanced at her watch. She had still three hours to wait, and the
memories of their last meeting set her blood in flame.
“My God, how light it is! It’s dreadful, but I do love to see his face,
and I do love this fantastic light.... My husband! Oh! yes.... Well,
thank God! everything’s over with him.”